Dresser Drawers
by Ennui-EAF
Summary: In each SHIELD issued room, there was a SHIELD issued dresser. The contents of those dressers varied, depending on the current occupants. And each item in those drawers, well, they told a bit of a story. Eventually M.
1. Chapter 1 Black Leather Corset

In each SHIELD issued room, there was a SHIELD issued dresser. The contents of those dressers varied, depending on the current occupants. Agent Dunham, a radar specialist, had a whole drawer of socks. Woolen ones, there was a rather nasty draft under the radar desk. Agent Millen, down in the armory, liked to stock up on cargo pants. The pockets came in handy.

Two rather more prominent agents also had dressers. Agent Romanoff, resident seductive spy, had her top dresser drawer full of lingerie. Agent Barton, their premier sniper, had his second drawer of shirts. And each item in those drawers, well, they told a bit of a story.

* * *

Top Drawer - Black Leather Corset

It had been a tiring mission, all things told, and Clint was glad to see the end of it. Too many nights sitting on rooftops and watching his partner flit about clubs, cozying up to this musclehead or that lowlife. All in the name of finding some ambassador's idiot son who'd gotten himself kidnapped and held for ransom. Frankly, Clint hadn't been surprised when they'd determined that the kid had been in on the whole deal. Natasha had greatly enjoyed the part where she'd finally 'escorted' the young man in question away from his captors. So the guy had tripped. Big deal.

They'd come out of it relatively unscathed, at least. Natasha had a few nicks and scratches, nothing to speak of. The idiot's partners/kidnappers hadn't exactly been top notch muscle. More brute strength than anything else, and frankly, the Black Widow could handle that with her eyes shut. Probably with one hand behind her back. And he'd bet she could have even taken them standing on one foot. Of course, there had been the ringleader, a coked-up skinhead with paramilitary training and what he'd guess was some really good drugs. That guy had felt no pain, and just kept getting back up every time Nat had laid him out. Damn good drugs. Clint had finally ended the whole mess with an arrow through his eye socket, which meant more paperwork. Too bad Fury had wanted the guy alive. He'd have to settle for the idiot son.

Clint was whistling under his breath, having showered, changed, and was wiping down his bow for the fifth time. It was so hard to get all the roof tar out of the little crevasses if you weren't careful. Natasha was in the bathroom, currently using all the hot water provide by the seedy hotel SHIELD had them stashed in. When the knock came at the door, he looked up, and narrowed his eyes.

He'd already slid out of range of the door and had one of his sidearms pointed at the entrance when his phone beeped. He glanced down, and rolled his eyes.

"Dammit, Phil, one of these days I'm going to shoot you," he grumbled, checking the peephole before holstering his weapon and opening the door.

Phil Coulson gave him a faint smile as he stepped into the room, a black satchel in his hand. "Good trip?" the other agent inquired mildly.

Clint rolled his eyes again as he secured the door. "You know exactly how it went, Phil, cut the crap," he said. He moved back to his original task. Time, tide and roof tar waited for no man. "You extracting us already?"

Coulson settled himself rather gingerly in the lone chair the room boasted, a rather spindly looking number without a cushion. Clint had avoided sitting in it, himself. "No," he said, setting his satchel next to the chair.

The door to the bathroom opened in a cloud of steam, and Natasha came out, rubbing her wet hair with one of the thin towels. "No?" she said. Clint flashed her a glance. Too bad, she was already dressed. Slim black sweats and t-shirt. He rather enjoyed those times when she came out in a towel, lots of long leg and porcelain skin showing. Ok, more than rather. She'd started doing that recently, and he took it as a good sign. Trust between partners, right? Clint focused his eyes back on his handler.

"What do you mean, no?" he echoed, propping his bow up on end and examining the string. No nicks, no rough spots… he slid his fingers slowly down the string, feeling as well as looking.

"If we're getting a few days off, I'm so not staying here," Natasha told Coulson, dropping the towel on the bed and picking up a comb instead. "This place is one step above a deathtrap, and that's being generous."

Coulson smiled, that little smile that Clint knew quite well and always meant the same thing. Clint groaned. "No, Phil." Natasha looked at him. "Aww, come on. We just got done! We don't get any break?"

Coulson cleared his throat. "This should only take a few hours," he said. "SHIELD has gotten word that Hans Grudenhaff is in town."

Clint blinked. Okay. That was one he didn't know. He looked at Natasha. She shrugged. "You're going to have to give us a little more than that," she said, cutting her eyes over to Coulson.

Phil reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a small sheaf of papers, leaning forward to spread them on the end of the bed. Clint abandoned his bow and Natasha set down her comb to lean forward and look at them. There was a picture, a Germanic looking man in his mid-40s, Clint guessed, slightly overweight, nasty look about the eyes.

"Grudenhaff," Coulson said, tapping the photo. "That's a current photo. He's currently working his way up in the Sanchez weapons organization. He's been a very low-level player, but just yesterday seems to have been promoted. He's in town, and we suspect he's here to broker a deal with some former East German security forces. There's a weapons cache that is reportedly still unaccounted for, and SHIELD would greatly like to acquire it."

Natasha had picked up the photo and was studying it. "And?" she asked, setting it back down.

"Grudenhaff has a big weakness," Coulson said, sitting back. "One that we can take advantage of tonight and hopefully get our hands on the weapons with." He smiled that damn little smile. "He's a submissive."

One red eyebrow slid upward. Natasha's face was fairly neutral, but Clint hadn't been studying his partner of two years from under his lashes for nothing. She wasn't thrilled. "S&M?" she said. "Seriously? Please tell me he's gay."

Clint grinned at her, loving the 'fuck you' look she shot back. "No way, sweet cheeks," he said. "This one's all you. Right, Phil?"

Coulson nodded. "Sorry, Romanoff, but Barton's right. Grudenhaff is strictly hetero, with a preference for redheads. You're right up his alley."

"Lovely," Natasha muttered, before mumbling something in Russian under her breath. Clint was pretty sure it wasn't anything complementary to either him or Phil.

Coulson reached down and picked up his satchel. "We've arranged for you two to work his favorite club tonight," he said. "Barton will be your doorman, you'll be the dominatrix. I think you'll find everything you need in here," he sat the satchel down on the bed, then glanced at his watch. "You've got about a half hour."

Natasha opened the satchel, looked in side, and Clint could tell she'd resisted groaning. "Great," she muttered. "Just great."

* * *

Clint wasn't exactly loving the gear he'd been handed for this job. Sure, he got to wear a knife in plain sight, but the rest of him… Frankly, men should not wear leather pants this tight. If Coulson was taking any pictures, he'd have to kill him.

Clint crossed his arms over the open vest that was the only thing covering his bare chest and huffed. "Come _on_, Nat," he muttered into the coms, "the guy'll be here any minute." She'd refused to change before they got to the sex club, stating that there was no way in hell she was traveling across Berlin wearing the get-up in the bag. Which, to be honest, Clint was really starting to be curious about. After all, HE was stuck in leather pants. He'd very much like to see what his partner was wearing.

"Shut-up, Hawkeye, or it won't be your wings I clip," came back at him. "Coulson, you are so on my shit list for this."

He could hear the smile in Phil's voice. "Just giving you the proper tools, Widow," he said. Coulson was out of sight, around the corner in the sealed off office of the club.

Clint leaned back against the doorframe, propping one booted foot behind him. "Women," he taunted. "You take so damn long to get ready…" his voice trailed off as the door behind him opened and his partner stepped out. Oh dear god in merciful heaven.

Two years they'd been partners. During that time, Clint had been privileged to see Natasha Romanoff dressed in all manner of disguises, generally designed to make her even more seductive and sexy than she already was. Which was a lot, he had to admit. Not that he'd tell Nat that, after all, he'd spent the last two years relentlessly pretending that she was sexless in order to get her to trust him. She'd only just started coming around in the last year, and he was really starting to enjoy the fact that she was treating him like a person, maybe even a friend, rather than just a no-name co-worker. But he'd had to look away from a lot of really hot outfits in the past. This one, there was no way.

His gaze started at her toes. Stiletto boots with lethal looking points, black leather and clinging tightly to her admittedly fantastic legs. His eyes tracked the boots up, up, up over her knees to where they ended mid-thigh. The creamy flesh of her thighs was wrapped in black fishnet stockings. Then there was the corset. Slick black leather, boned with metal, nipped in at the waist and sloping up to lift and cup those perfect porcelain breasts. Her shoulders were bare, and a black studded collar was snug around her throat. Her hair was wild and red and loose and her eyes smudged with wicked intent. She was sex on two legs. She was every man's most dangerous fantasy. When he'd first heard the name 'Black Widow' years ago, this was what he'd pictured.

This op was going to set a new speed record.

Clint swallowed, hopefully not obviously. Natasha raised an eyebrow at him, face cool and yet impatient. "Well?" she demanded.

"That'll work," Clint said, a touch hoarsely.

And of course, it did. Grudenhaff showed up, Clint ushered him into the little room with Natasha, and the Black Widow had him singing the location of the weapons cache in less than ten minutes, along with the names and locations of practically every member of the Sanchez organization the guy knew. Actually it was seven minutes, twelve seconds. He'd timed it.

Afterward, Coulson stepped out of the little office with a small smirk as back-up SHIELD agents took the blubbering fool away. He looked at Clint and his eyes glinted. "You're welcome," he said.

Clint didn't bother to pretend that he didn't know what Phil was talking about. He grinned back, and then swallowed his tongue again as Natasha stalked by him, one extremely sexy hip at a time. "Men," she said with disgust.


	2. Chapter 2 Black Cotton Undershirt

Chapter 2

Second Drawer – Black Cotton Undershirt

Natasha Romanoff was a woman who paid attention to the details. Often, the smallest bits of information meant the difference between life and death in her world. Between a successful mission and a failure. Once, it had meant the difference between a normal childhood and what she had now become.

Her attention to details was how she knew things like exactly how tall Fury was. How many pairs of shoes Agent Hill had in her closet. And the sound of her partners footsteps.

She also knew that those footsteps going past her door at this time of night meant that the Hawk's sleep had been less than peaceful, and that he was on his way to the training rooms. Natasha didn't have to think what that meant. She knew if Clint was going to work out some demons at this hour, it was her task to guard his back while he did.

She slipped along the darkened corridors, minimal crew was on duty during the early morning hours. She knew every bolt and rivet of the way, knew every doorway and who could be found behind each door at that given moment. She knew that she'd find the training rooms deserted, save for the man who stood in front of the heavy bag, finishing wrapping his hands in tape, under the sole light in the room.

Natasha settled back against the wall, silent and still in the dark, and watched her partner. Clint always seemed to know she was there, although he never seemed to acknowledge it. It was just a sense she had, that he knew. She would have felt the same, she thought. She always knew where he was without having to look. It was part of what made them such good partners.

She watched as he stepped toward the heavy bag, tension straining across his shoulders. He'd stripped down to shorts, bare feet, and a sleeveless black undershirt. The ribbed fabric was tight against his torso, and she could see the gleam of his skin, paler against the black cotton. He raised his fists.

Bam. Bam. Bam-bam. He was starting slow. It must not have been as horrible as some nights. Bam. Bam-bam-bam. Bam-bam-bam. Bam-bam-bam-bam… On the really bad nights, he literally threw himself at the bag, beating out a fast and furious rhythm. He'd started slower this time, working his way up.

The staccato beat of his fists against the bag was soothing, in a way, and it was oddly relaxing to her. With her back snugly against the wall, her legs stretched out in front of her, and a good view of all entrances, she was content to sit and watch her partner work. And think.

She often found herself thinking about her partner during these late night sessions. Thinking about how they'd met, how he'd brought her over to SHIELD. Thinking about those early missions where she really hadn't decided if it was worth the trouble of killing him and disappearing or not. Thinking about that moment in Budapest when she'd finally made up her mind to stay, to be his partner.

They were a good team, an excellent team. He could read her signals as easily as she could read his, and once they'd gotten some early… miscommunication out of the way, they'd complemented each other beautifully. It was one of the small pleasures of her life now, that she had a partner who could match her skills, maybe not exactly, but enough to keep her on her toes.

Even little things like having a real sparring partner. Clint was working harder, sweat starting to gleam on his shoulders and arms, collecting darkly in the small of his back and dampening the black cotton there. There wasn't anyone in SHIELD who could match the Black Widow in hand-to-hand combat, but Hawkeye came close. She still won five matches for his every one. Every so often, however, he'd sneak around her and she'd find herself pinned and unable to get out. At least without really hurting him. And somehow, she was unwilling to hurt Clint, especially in a practice session.

It was when he got those arms locked around her, she thought, studying the power that made the heavy bag sing and the room resonate with the rapid, dull thuds. He was an archer, someone who relied on his arms and hands to be more than everyone else's. His arms had to be strong, very strong. His hands had to be sensitive. When he managed to get those arms locked around her when they were grappling, she couldn't break his grip without breaking a bone. And that wasn't someone she wanted to do.

It was odd to think, three years ago, she'd have broken every bone in his body without blinking. Now… now she watched his back when he needed to work off late-night demons.

Natasha crossed her ankles and let her mind drift. If it were daylight, and Clint were in here doing his regular training, there would be a group of four women from the communications department loitering in the corner. Groupies. Clint had groupies. She found it both amusing and annoying, and was not very inclined to examine why. She usually just moved into their line of sight when the irritation became too much, and they would squeak and disappear. Pathetic.

She studied the quick movements of his hands. He at least had taken the time to tape them, she thought. It was those nights when he didn't that she knew something was really wrong. Clint was careful of his hands, given how much he needed their sensitivity and responsiveness. He tended to avoid flat out punching someone, preferring to use a weapon of some sort. She admired that practicality in him. His hands were his tools, and he took care of his tools.

She suspected that was part of why he used the bag on his nightmares. It was a way to work out the tension, yes, but it was also simply a practical workout for his arms. It took great strength to draw the bow of the Hawk, and even greater strength to keep drawing it, over and over as he did when they were in a fight. She'd tried it once, under his amused and watchful eye. She'd been surprised at how difficult it was, and had accepted that this was a weapon she was not suited for the way he was. Sure, she could use it in a pinch, she'd made him teach her that much. But the Black Widow would always prefer something a little closer in.

Bam-bam-bam-bam. Bam-bam. Bam-bam. He was starting to slow down. Natasha wondered what he'd dreamt of. It had been a decent workout, his black undershirt was damp and dark. His skin gleamed under the lights with sweat. If she ran her hand through his short hair, she would find it damp as well, she was sure. Bam-bam. Bam. Bam.

Natasha watched silently as Clint finally came to a halt, dropping his arms and resting his hands on his hips. His head tilted down and he stared at the floor, breathing quickly. He stood for a long moment, and she was struck, not for the first time, with the urge to go to him and lay her hand on his shoulder. She didn't know why she'd started having this feeling, that she should be reaching out of the dark shadows to her partner standing in that brief circle of light, but it was there. Clint would probably have an opinion, he always seemed to have words for the situations they found themselves in. She, she didn't do well with words. Not for things that mattered, and if she were honest, her partner mattered to her. A great deal.

Clint drew in a deep breath, his shoulders lifting and chest expanding, before blowing it out and looking up. He started unwrapping the tape on his hands as he walked slowly towards the door, crossing in front of her. He stopped to drop the used tape in the trashcan by the door, and then paused in the doorway.

"Goodnight, Nat," he said. "Get some more sleep." And then he was gone around the corner.

Natasha sat for another few minutes, soaking up the silence of the darkened training room. Tomorrow would be here soon enough. They would work out, practice and train and be at the ready for another mission. The corridors and rooms would bustle with people going here and there and doing the same. Right now, however, it was dark. Silent. Still. She could almost still see the shape of her partner's strong arms beating a rhythm on the gently swaying bag in the middle of the room.

Natasha sighed, and stood. She might not sleep more tonight, but for his sake, she could pretend.

* * *

Next Chapter: Top Drawer – Red Satin Teddy


	3. Chapter 3 Red Satin Teddy

Chapter 3

Top Drawer – Red Satin Teddy

Clint was humming to himself as he waited. After all, he was stuck on a rooftop waiting for his cue, while his partner schmoozed her way through the charity gala below. Ah, Paris, he thought, pausing in his musical musings to survey the city spread out before him. Nice town.

He looked back down at the garden party two houses over, and could just pick out Nat among the other guests. She actually wasn't very hard to find, he thought, amused at himself. Red hair, red blouse… everyone else was wearing bland colors. White, cream, beige, black, brown. Not Nat. She was putting the moves on Antonio Scoliatti, Italian slave merchant. The guy was slick, slimy and known for liking his woman hot. Hence the flimsy red top.

"_Frère Jacques, frère Jacques_…" he sang softly.

"I swear, if you don't quit that damn nursery rhyme, I'm going to tell the girls in Communications what time you take your shower," the sweet dulcet tones of the Black Widow sounded in his ear. It sounded like she was gritting her teeth.

Clint grinned, keeping his sights on the party. Getting closer now. "Aw, you don't like my French? I'm stuck up here with nothing to do, it's either _Frère Jacques_, or I go back to _American Pie_."

"Anything but the damn French song," came the response.

Clint smirked a little, shifting his position just slightly. His part after the rooftop shot necessitated him being in a suit and tie, and it really wasn't his favorite way to use his bow. He preferred bare arms, not hampered by anything. But, he was flexible. Flexible was his middle name.

"_Long, long time ago_," he sang softly, sighting down the arrow. "_I can still remember how that music use to make me smile._" He could almost feel her heaving a sigh, before the bright, seductive chatter of the Widow started to spin into place. Scolatti must have come back with her drink.

"_And I knew if I had my chance, I could make those people dance, and maybe they'd be happy for a while._"

At least it wasn't a hot day. The sun was warm, but Paris in May was pretty nice. And there wasn't too much of a breeze, at least not enough to make him really have to adjust his shot.

"_But February made me shiver, with every paper I'd deliver. Bad news on the doorstep, I couldn't take one more step._"

It was actually kind of a nice mission, not too stressful, well-planned, fairly simple in execution. Not a real high risk factor. Nat would get the guy out, he'd pick them up in the car, drive them all straight to the waiting SHIELD agents. Piece of cake.

"_I can't remember if I cried when I read about his widowed bride. But something touched me deep inside, the day the music died_."

Add in he got to needle his partner a little by singing in her ear, which he was actually pretty sure she really liked. There was a real lack of physical retaliation after the fact, he'd noticed. So he kept singing to her while she worked the scene below. Besides, it passed the time for him, by himself on the roof.

"J'aime Paris au printemps. Le soleil, les fleurs, l'air ... je me sens si libre et ouvert. N'avez-vous pas d'accord?" Nat's French was kind of like music, he mused, humming the chorus as he listened to her. He had to envy the mark, the guy got to look at Nat in that flimsy little red thing she was wearing, AND he got to listen to her French. Not a bad way to go down.

"Je pense que les hommes de conviction sont si ... séduisante. Puissant." He'd be damned if he knew what she was saying, but he could listen to her all day long.

"_So bye, bye, Miss American Pie_," he sang softly in her ear from two roofs away. "_Drove my Chevy to the levy, but the levy was dry._" He checked his watch. Any second now. "_Them good old boys were drinkin' whiskey and rye, singing this'll be the day that I die._"

Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. The church bells from around the corner chimed out the hour. Clint hummed the last line of the chorus as he lined up his shot. "Incoming, Widow," he said and let the arrow fly.

The shot was true and perfect. Straight through the window of the building behind the garden gala, the exploding head timed to detonate a split second later. Clint counted two heartbeats and then the world turned over.

He was actually hit by the wave of heat and energy from the building. It staggered him and sent him scrambling back to the edge of the roof for a quick look before turning and pounding down the roof stairs, barely pausing to collapse his bow into the innocuous case and shrug on the suit jacket. "Natasha," he gritted into his com. "Dammit, Nat, you ok?"

That explosion had been way too big. WAY too big. His explosive should have knocked out windows, maybe a chunk of wall. Not blown out the entire side of the building. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He was moving fast and faster, bolting to the scene of what was probably carnage.

He heard a groan in his ear. "Baiser." God, that had to be the best cuss word he'd ever heard. And of course, only the Black Widow would stay in character enough to swear in French.

"I'm on my way," he said, slamming into the car. "Can you make it to the car with the mark?"

There was a muttered response, and he couldn't quite catch it. That alone told him a lot. Shit. He spun the steering wheel and pulled as close to the rubble and the mass of wailing, panicking people as he could. He was searching for red in the still drifting smoke even before he made it out of the car.

Natasha was there, limping through the smoke with a man's arm slung over her shoulders. He wasn't sure if the guy was out or not, but he certainly wasn't feeling any pain. Clint was on her in two strides, and hauled the nearly limp weight onto his own shoulders. "Did you already tranq him?" he asked softly. "Or is he just out?"

Nat was limping behind him as he eased the now unconscious body of the Italian into the back seat of the car. "I hit him with the tranq after we got knocked down," she said. Clint didn't like the way she sounded, but before he was able to get his hands free of the mark to help her, she was easing her way into the front seat of the car.

"How bad?" he asked, leaning over and holding her door open.

She scowled at him, and he got his first real look at her. Hair all over, soot and blood on her face, red blouse ripped to shreds and hanging loose over the red satin teddy underneath. Black skirt ripped in two places and it looked like she'd lost a shoe. "Get a move on, Barton," she snapped, and yanked on the door. Clint let go as she slammed it shut, and rounded the car to slide behind the wheel. A flick of his wrist and they were gone.

"This is the Black Widow," Natasha said calmly into the com, "We'll be needing a medic at the rendezvous site."

"Two medics," Clint inserted, getting a glare in return. Hah. Like he was scared off by a look. Three and a half years of partnering, she hadn't killed him yet. No way she'd do it over him making her get checked out post-mission. He cut the corner a little hard, and sped down the narrow road. Nearly there.

"You are such a worrier," Natasha groused, smoothing down her hair with a bloody hand. He shifted, turned the wheel, and pulled into the open garage door. It slid shut and he made two quick turns into the underground tunnel, then pulled to a stop.

"Yeah, yeah," Clint said, setting the brake and catching her hand in his to check for injury. "Bitch at me in French, will you? It sounds nicer."

She snatched her hand back and made to get out of the car, rolling her eyes, but Clint was moving fast. He knew his partner. He bent over her open door on the other side of the car as she glared at him from the passenger seat. SHIELD agents were already maneuvering the guy in the backseat out and onto a gurney.

"Yeah?" he challenged. "Let's see you stand on both feet, hot shot." When she huffed a breath and muttered something in Russian, not French, under her breath, he knew he'd won. "Right. Up you go, and into the medics."

The Black Widow didn't need help getting around after a mission, but she was typically pretty ok when Hawkeye got pushy. He made a point of not doing it too often. Today, this was one of those days. Clint slid an arm around her waist as she wobbled on her one good foot. The red satin of her teddy was slick and warm against his hand as he held on.

"Dammit, I think I broke something," she muttered. She glared down at her foot, which was already rather ugly colors.

"Don't kill me," he said, and bending picked her up, one arm under her knees, the other sliding around her back. A little growl was all he got. Guess something really must be broken, he thought, as Clint carried her towards the waiting medics. Otherwise he'd never get away with having his hands on her like this. Her body was warm and light in his arms. He always forgot how slight she really was.

Coulson appeared at his side. "We've got confirmation," the handler said. "A meth lab in the basement caused the excessive explosion."

"Next time, could we perhaps have someone _look_ at the target before we blow it up?" Natasha said in her sweetest tones as Clint lowered her as gently as possible onto the exam table. She winced just the slightest bit as a rather brave medic began to prod her ankle. "Possibly before I get knocked out of commission for a few weeks?"

Clint hadn't slid his hand off her waist yet, his fingers still on the slick satin. He could feel the tension in her as the medic began to set her ankle, and he stroked his thumb against her side soothingly. And then froze. She'd probably kill him now.

To his surprise and absolute pleasure, she instead went very still, then breathed out a long slow breath. He could feel her side move and the muscles relax. Well then. Clint turned and looked at Coulson, who was saying something about Scarlotti and started paying attention to the conversation again. While keeping his hand exactly where it was.

* * *

Next Chapter – Green Lace Panties


	4. Chapter 4 Green Lace Panties

Chapter 4

Top Drawer – Green Lace Panties

It was a fairly well-established fact in SHIELD that you did not mess with Natasha Romanoff. Not unless you really were into pain and suffering and psychological torture. There was a guy down in Accounts, he'd made the mistake of trying to put the moves on the super spy when she was first recruited. He wasn't dead. But sometimes, boy, he really wished he was.

Clint had spent nearly four years figuring his partner out. He was pretty good at it now. He knew what the small changes to her facial expressions meant, the little inflections of her voice that most people wouldn't catch. He knew the way she moved when she was tired, hurt, sick or just plain mad. He knew where she kept about half her weapons at any given time, and knew not to ask about the other half. He even knew where some of the bodies were buried. Heck, he'd helped with a few.

All that knowledge was now up in the air. Ever since Paris, Clint had felt like he was back in basic training. There had been this one thing he'd done in his early days with SHIELD… he'd sparred with the other recruits blindfolded. When you lost your sight, you expanded your other senses. Hearing. Smell. Touch. You got to the point where you could feel the intention of the other person in the air before they moved, and you countered. It was like a smooth, seamless ballet, at least until you knocked them on their ass for the five hundredth time and they started whining about not wanting to fight you anymore. Natasha, she was a great sparring partner. Sure, she usually ended up kicking his ass, but there was no shame in loosing to the Black Widow. And the matches weren't exactly short. They usually took the mats for a couple hours at a time, just to get in two or three good bouts.

Lately, it had felt like all his moves with Natasha off the mats were blindfolded. He was listening, trying to sense what she was really saying or feeling or meaning while not being able to clearly see. Clint felt like they were moving counter to each other, back and forth, sparring again. Or maybe dancing was closer to it. He knew none of his moves were trying to cause any damage. He wasn't sure about Natasha.

Right now was a very good example. Nat had been briefed on her upcoming solo mission, a longer-term undercover in Stark Enterprises. Iron Man was making Fury nervous, and no one was better at finding out the truth of a situation than the Black Widow. So in she was going, without him as backup. Clint wasn't thrilled about that part, but the chances of something dangerous happening in this job were really slim. There just wasn't a place for him. Besides, Coulson was making noises about something in New Mexico, and he was pretty sure he was going to get a call in the next day or so to head out to the desert.

Nat's cover with Stark was detailed and deep, and included the little tidbit that she was a former lingerie model. Which meant her backstory needed proof. Which mean pictures of Nat, in her underwear. Frankly, Clint's brain did some funny scrambling and the back of his neck would start to sweat when he thought about it. Nat had been cool as ever, even when Fury had told her that the SHIELD publicity department would take the photos. But he'd sensed that movement of air before the motion, and something had made him open his big mouth and casually insist that he should be there was well. After all, someone had to protect the photographer from Agent Romanoff.

So here he was, leaning against a back wall, out of the circle of lights set up around a backdrop, waiting for Nat to come out. The 'photographer', otherwise known as Agent Mike Milson, was puttering around, poking at various lights, cameras and other equipment. Clint had checked Milson out. Thoroughly. The guy was 57 years old and was married to Stanley Mongage. Clint was ok with that.

He wondered briefly if the sense that Nat had wanted him here was because she was going to about as unarmed as was possible to be. No weapons anywhere near her, and that wasn't something his partner liked. He'd slept next to her on too many missions. The woman preferred no less than three items of death on her person at any given time.

"Agent?" Milson called. "Are you about ready?"

Clint crossed his arms and stayed in his dark corner. He didn't want to make Nat uncomfortable. Some part of him, however, was quivering in anticipation of getting to watch. Ok. A fairly large part that was becoming increasingly hard to ignore and push away was doing handsprings right now, particularly since she'd started giving off signals that told him to let those… feelings... loose.

"Ready," Natasha said, her voice sliding over his ears in the dark as she stepped around the backdrop into the brightly lit area. She was wearing a short, silky robe in a sort of bluish green. Her hair was dark brown for this job, and curled. Clint found himself missing the red. Brown was too common for Nat.

"Right then, Agent, if you would sit here," Milson started talking and pointing. Natasha gave no indication that she was even aware of Clint in his corner as she gracefully seated herself on the stool placed for her.

"Ok, let's start with the robe," Milson went on. "Let the shoulders slip open, and give me a nice sultry look over your shoulder. Beautiful, that's beautiful. Lift your chin an inch, yes, yes, that's nice. Now let the left side slip to your elbow, bend that arm a little…"

As Clint watched, the Black Widow turned and smoldered and the lights flashed with every picture. She was brilliant at this, he could tell. Those pictures would be flawless, because she was so good at being whatever she was asked to be. He wondered, as the soft, pale skin of her upper back was bared and the robe pooled around her waist, how much of her real self made it into each role. How much of what she was showing Agent Milson's camera was Natasha, not the Black Widow.

"Right, let's take the stool away," Milson was moving on. The guy worked fast, at least. Clint was dancing blindfolded again, but Nat wasn't loving this. This was just a job, just work.

"Bend your knees, and lean back on your elbows, that's right, let's have your hair fall all the way back, and look up. Now turn your face toward me, a little more…" The robe was still loosely caught about her, but the green satin and lace of her bra was on display now. God, she was beautiful, Clint thought, something tightening low in his stomach. He could see faint scars from the life they led, the injuries she'd had, but Milson was going to photoshop them out. She'd be perfect in the pictures. Clint was pretty sure that the woman crossing her legs and tilting her chin in front of him was pretty damn perfect as she was.

"Ok. Let's try something a little different now," Milson was saying, shifting backgrounds and equipment around. "Take the robe off, here, let me just set it aside, and sit back on the stool again." Clint watched the smooth satin of the robe slide away from her body, and the small of her back, the tops of her thighs, the curve of her belly was bared to him and the camera. "Turn around, face the wall, yes, and lets try this."

As Clint watched, Natasha sat on the stool, wearing nothing but that bra and delicate green lace panties. Her toes curled onto the lowest rung of the stool, and he could see the faint cleft between her cheeks. The line of her back was straight and smooth and white against that green, her skin fairly glowing in the bright lights. She looked down, hair falling over one shoulder, right hand crossed over her body to rest on her left elbow. Milson was still talking, coaching. She looked… fragile. Clint felt that low something tighten even more.

Then she lifted her eyes, and instead of looking at the camera or Milson or the lights or anything else in the room, she looked at him. Bam. It was like something hit him in the chest, three rounds to the heart or a boot to the solar plexus. He couldn't breath, couldn't move, couldn't look away.

And then she shifted and moved into another shot for the still talking photographer, and the air rushed back into his lungs. Without thinking about it, Clint found himself rubbing his chest as if there was an ache there.

Dancing blindfolded, indeed.

* * *

Next Chapter - White Oxford Shirt


	5. Chapter 5 White Oxford Shirt

Chapter 5

Second Drawer – White Oxford Shirt

Natasha was tired. Bone weary and sore and just plain tired. Loki and Thor had just vanished, that bloody blue cube along with them, and she was about to take advantage of her partner's noble nature and force him into something for his own good.

Clint was standing, arms crossed, sunglasses on, still staring at the spot where the two demigods had been. She didn't have to touch him to know he was tense and angry. Guilt ridden and frustrated and messed up inside.

"Let's go," Natasha said, not bothering to wait for Clint as she turned and headed for the car. Stark and Banner were already heading out, Rogers was putting on his helmet. She pulled the passenger door open and dropped down into it, tossing the keys over her shoulder as she did. She heard the chink of them being caught and then Clint was sliding behind the wheel.

"We're off duty," she said casually, as Clint turned the motor on. She heard the engine rev, and felt his gaze land on her face. Natasha didn't bother looking over at him. Instead, she slid her own shades on and slouched down a little in the seat. "Bags are in the trunk, we've got two weeks. I'm taking a nap."

She heard the motor rev again, then a third time, like Clint was trying to make up his mind. She went ahead and closed her eyes, fighting the smile that was trying to pull at the corners of her mouth. Then the wheels turned and they were heading out. North, she thought drowsily, he'd go north.

She'd dropped off into sleep almost immediately, and didn't wake for several hours. When she did, it was from a deep, peaceful sleep like she hadn't had since the last time she'd ridden shotgun while Clint drove. Something about her partner behind the wheel and a long road kept the dreams away, every time. She stretched and turned her head to look at the man next to her.

He looked better, she though. More relaxed, more thoughtful than angry and guilt-ridden. The man had needed to just drive. He was a sniper, a patient, watchful, waiting man. The stillness of controlling a speeding car was just what he needed.

Natasha yawned. "Where are we?" she asked.

Clint had one hand on the wheel, the other lying relaxed on his thigh. "Maine," he said, glancing over at her and smiling a little. "North, right?"

"North," she agreed. She knew her partner. Cool, clear air. The sea. Stillness and peace and few people. North.

They lapsed into silence, tarmac speeding away under the tires of the car. The radio was on, softly, and she could hear Clint humming along. She wasn't sure what the song was, she didn't know as much about American music as Clint thought she should.

Natasha let her mind drift, watching the scenery go by. Trees and water and rocks. It all blurred and relaxed her. The sound of Clint's voice, singing softly now, slipped in and almost lulled her to sleep once more.

_Hello again, hello. Just called to say 'hello'. I couldn't sleep at all tonight, and I know it's late, but I couldn't wait._

The sun was starting to set, and her mind was blessedly blank. The light was gleaming and flickering golden-red through the treetops.

_Hello, my friend, hello. Just called to let you know, I think about you every night when I'm here alone, and you're there at home. Hello._

He really was a good singer. And she'd never tell him so, but when he was up on a rooftop, watching over her down below, the sound of his voice soft in her ear was… soothing. Relaxing. It had become something she depended on, there in the back of her mind while she was working a mark.

Clint flicked a blinker on, and they started to slow. She rolled her head to look at him. "Holiday Inn," he nodded at the lit sign down the road. Natasha stretched again in her seat and sat up as he pulled into the parking lot. She could do with a shower and a meal.

* * *

Natasha was out of the shower, dressed in jeans and a plain brown t-shirt, rubbing her hair dry with a towel when the knock at the adjoining door came. The door swung open a moment later, Clint standing behind it.

"You ready?" he asked. He'd clearly done the same as her, showered and changed. His hair looked still damp, and he'd changed his shirt. He was wearing a white button-down, untucked, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the collar open. Dark jeans, rugged shoes. He pushed his hands into his pockets, and leaned a shoulder against the doorframe.

"Almost," Natasha said, turning away from him. Something had started shifting around in her stomach when he'd opened the door, and she had the feeling she needed a moment before she went off with the man leaning against her doorjamb. She stepped back into the bathroom and reached for a comb.

"_Hello, again, hello. Just called to say, 'hello',_" Her hand slowed midstroke and she stared into her own eyes in the mirror. He was singing softly in the other room.

"_I couldn't sleep at all tonight. And I know it's late, but I couldn't wait…"_

Natasha silently set the comb down and closed her eyes. She'd arranged these two weeks with Fury in an effort to get her partner back. She wanted the man she'd known before he'd left for New Mexico, before Loki and aliens. The one who had her back at all times, who cracked stupid jokes and elbowed her during briefings. The one she'd started to… feel differently about.

Contrary to popular belief, Natasha Romanoff knew a lot about feelings. In fact, she was an expert in them. The Black Widow did her best work by prompting feelings in other people. You control how they feel, you control their behavior. She knew what joy, sorrow, anger, guilt, love, hate looked like. She knew the signs of all those feelings. She knew how to make others feel them. What she didn't know was how to feel them herself.

Natasha opened her eyes again, and studied her reflection in the mirror again.

"_Hello, my friend, hello. It's good to need you so. It's good to love you like I do. And to feel this way when I hear you say, 'hello'…_"

Perhaps it was time to learn. She breathed deep, breathed in the calm, then stepped out of the bathroom, shutting the light.

"Ready," she said. Try as she might, she couldn't quite make herself meet his eyes, and that frustrated her. The fact that she didn't know why made her more so. She reached for her jacket, tossed on the end of the bed.

"Natasha…" he said softly. As he had when he'd woken up, sitting next to her in that detention room, a lump on his head that she'd put there and that frightening blue gone from his eyes. Her fingers tightened in the leather of her jacket as she shrugged it on.

Clint stepped out of the doorway, hands still tucked in his pockets. "You ok?" he asked. She could smell him. And it was at once familiar – soap and leather and that hint of musk.

She looked up at him and smiled. "Yeah," she said. She cocked her head at him, eyes on his now. "You?"

His smile seemed to freeze for a second. "Not yet," he said, his lips twisting a little. "Come on," he said, turning away and heading for her door. "I'm hungry."

Natasha followed behind him, absently slipping her extra back-up gun into the concealed pocket of her leather jacket. "I want lobster," she told him as he held the door open for her.

He grinned down at her, the moment seemingly gone. "I figured," he said. "You know they're just big bugs, right?"

Natasha groaned as they started walking down the hotel hallway. "Really? You're going to give me this crap again?"

"Giant cockroaches," Clint taunted as they stepped down the stairwell. "Big ol' bugs…"

* * *

She was full of lobster, the night was cool and crisp, and they were walking back to the hotel in a quiet night. Insects hummed in the trees, a few night birds called. The scent of the ocean was in the air and the moon glimmered down through the trees. If she were on a job, Natasha thought absently, this would be a great seduction setting.

Clint was strolling easily next to her, his hands back in his pockets. His white shirt gleamed a little in the moonlight, making him an easy mark. She wondered if he'd planned that, out of some convoluted guilty conscience. He wasn't quite as relaxed as he seemed, and she figured sooner was better than later.

"You ready to talk?" she asked quietly.

Clint didn't answer for a long minute. When he did, it was in a murmur. "You? You want to talk?" There was a thread of amusement in his voice, she was glad to hear. It meant _her_ Hawkeye was in there, in control. "You're the poster child for 'work it out on your own', Tasha."

The nickname soothed her, even as she prepared to push herself past her limits of comfort. "Maybe so," she said, eyes ahead on the road, hands tucked in her jacket pockets. "But you do best when you get it out. And I'm your partner, Barton. If there's something wrong with you, I'm going to help fix it."

He was silent beside her, and she dared to prod him a little. "Even if it means a mild concussion." She got a snort at that, and her lips curved in the dark.

"Thanks," he said.

"Anytime," she gave back in a blandly affable voice.

He sighed and they kept walking. "I'm… working on it," he finally said. He tipped his head back and looked up at the night sky. "Probably a lot a bad dreams to deal with. Probably need to find a gym and beat the crap out of something at some point. Probably…" his voice trailed off and he looked back down at the road. They kept walking.

Natasha waited patiently. It wasn't her strongest suit, he was the one who sat back and waited for the right moment. She was the one who went in close and made the moment happen. She pulled her hands out of her pocket and rubbed them against her thighs. "I need you back," she finally said. She didn't know how else to explain it.

They were almost there, she could see the lit sign of the hotel up ahead. "I know," he answered quietly. "I'll get there." His hands were loose by his sides.

Natasha let herself flow in the moment, and reached over to wrap her pinky finger around his. Not holding hands. Just holding on. "Promise." It wasn't a question.

His finger tightened on hers, and his thumb came around to stroke the back of her hand. It tightened that spot in her belly. "Promise," he said.

They reached the parking lot, and she let her hand slip away as he opened to hotel door, let the moment flow past them and left it back in the night. They'd take these two weeks, and she'd get her Hawk back by the end of them. He'd promised.

Natasha followed his white shirt to the stairwell, and started up the steps. She wondered how they'd dream tonight.

* * *

Next Chapter – Black Sports Bra


	6. Chapter 6 Black Sports Bra

Chapter 6

Top Drawer – Black Sports Bra

Clint was sprawled out at the table in Conference Room #2, idly chatting with Steve Rogers. They'd been going over the latest rumor reports of Hydra weaponry resurfacing, and now that they were basically done, they'd just started shooting the breeze. Steve was a hoot, Clint thought, not for the first time. A genuine nice guy who happened to be damn near indestructible. Not to mention the whole need-to-learn-about-the-21st-century thing. It was really really tempting to mess with the guy a little. Too bad that would take away some of Tony's fun.

Steve was saying something about football and helmets and concussions when Clint glanced at the clock.

"Oh, shit," Clint interrupted, sitting bolt upright.

"What?" Steve stopped and stared at him. Clint was gathering up all the papers they'd been scanning, shoving them back into the folder. "Got somewhere to be, Barton?"

"Damn straight I do," Clint said. He grabbed the folder as he stood, then paused. He started to grin. "You do, too. Come on," he said over his shoulder. "You'll thank me later."

"I don't know if I like the sound of this," he heard Steve muttering behind him, as the Captain obediently followed him out of the room and down the corridors.

It took precious minutes, but Clint detoured through the cafeteria, grabbing a couple of bags of chips and soft drinks, waving cheekily to the lunch ladies as he did. "Barton, where are we going?" Steve was asking again as they swung back into the hallway.

"Training room," Clint tossed back, making a beeline for the doors ahead. He grinned. "Nat's starting a new group of field agents on their hand-to-hand."

Steve was right on his shoulder when Clint pushed into the room. Their eyes went straight across to the training mats, where the Black Widow was currently pacing back and forth between a small line of men and women. She was giving them her 'why you need this training' rant, Clint noted. Good. He hadn't missed the fun yet.

Beckoning to Steve, he slipped around the side of the room to where there was a couple of chairs against the wall. Good view of the trainees, lovely view of Tasha's ass… Clint plopped down in the chair and offered one of the bags of chips and a coke to Steve. He shifted in the chair, getting comfortable. This was gonna be good.

The Black Widow was in fine form this afternoon, he noted. Hair pulled back, stripped down to black sports bra and shorts. Apparently she felt these particular trainees needed some 'extra' work. Nat only stripped down that much when she wanted to really, ah, make an impact. And boy, what an impact. The woman should be illegal. Well, actually, she kinda was in seven countries. Maybe eight.

Clint eyed the trainees, munching on a sour cream and onion chip. He'd put money on the third guy, the blonde with the smirk. Nat was totally going to cream his ass first.

"You are here because you want to field agents!" Natasha was currently lecturing. "You are here because you wish to be the best of the best! Right now, you are scum. You are less than the dirt under my shoe. Right now, I could kill you with one finger."

Blondie smirked more at that, and as Clint had predicted, Nat rounded on him. "You. Agent Smith. On the mat." Blondie smirked again at this, and swaggered forward until he was standing confidently in front of Nat.

Clint nudged Stave excitedly, munching another chip. "Here we go," he whispered.

"What advantage should Agent Smith have over myself?" Natasha was demanding of the trainees, pacing back and forth in front of them. "You!" she pointed.

"Ah, he's… bigger, ma'am," stammered the poor sap she was pointing at.

"Good," Nat nodded. "You!" she pointed again.

"Stronger?" the woman said tentatively. "A guy?"

Natasha sniffed as Clint silently chuckled to himself. Poor idiots. "Being a man is not an advantage, as you will see," she said. She whirled and stepped across from the still smirking man. "Attack me," she said.

There was this moment where the guy was all confidence and smiles and then he made one movement forward. Next thing you could see, his face was firmly on the floor with the Black Widow's foot on his ass.

"Pathetic," she pronounced. She removed her foot and Agent Smith scrambled to his feet, looking rather red in the face. "Again," she ordered. Bam, bam, bam. On his back this time, her elbow in his throat. She let him stand up, looking rather upset now. "Again!" she demanded. This time, he did a full body flip and landed on his belly. Natasha sniffed, and turned her back on the prone man. Clint could feel the Captain next to him wince in sympathy.

"A field agent must be able to defeat any opponent!" she said, hands on her hips. The woman wasn't even winded, Clint admired, crunching his chips. He should have grabbed a bigger bag. "You will be drilling your hand-to-hand skills daily for four hours at a time! You will be bruised, you will break bones and spill blood and you will continue to fight!" Agent Smith was getting up, Clint noticed. He saw the look on the guy's face and grinned.

Clint nudged Steve. "Watch this," he whispered. Smith was standing behind Natasha, and he just _knew_ what was coming next.

"You will learn how to work through the pain…" Natasha was saying when Agent Smith attacked her from behind. She didn't even turn around. An elbow, a fist and two shin strikes and Smith was curled into a fetal position, clutching his balls and his mouth opening and closing silently. "You WILL spar with each other and myself. I will teach you how to feel pain and how to work through it."

Clint settled back feeling quite relaxed. God, he loved watching the woman work. All those trainees were properly terrified now.

"Wow," Steve muttered to him. "She's worse than any drill instructor I ever saw."

"Yeah, but by the end, they'll be able to stay alive in the field," Clint muttered back. "Besides, it's just awesome watching her kick the snot out of someone bigger."

Steve rolled his eyes. "That's because you…" he started.

"Captain Rogers!" The two of them jumped. Crap. Clint brushed at his shirt. He'd nearly spilled his Coke.

"Yes, Agent Romanoff?" Steve said, giving her his normal, polite, friendly tone. Clint saw the twitch at the corner of his eye. Hah. This should be good.

"Would you please join me on the mat," Nat ordered. Steve opened his mouth and she glared. He shut it and shoved his chips and drink at Clint.

"Thanks, buddy," he muttered at Clint, before getting up and walking over to join her. Clint set the food down next to him and prepared to enjoy himself even more. Big tall strong Captain America next to the little bitty (well, ok, maybe not _bitty_) Black Widow.

"What is Captain Rogers advantage?" Natasha barked.

"Strength! Height! Reach!" Well, this bunch was learning fast, Clint thought, folding his hands behind his head and stretching his legs in front of him and crossing them at the ankles.

"Correct. Captain, lets see if you can do better than Agent Smith," Natasha ordered.

Steve looked vaguely ill. "Ahh…" he started. Bam! Nat had him flipped onto his back and an elbow on his throat. "Sorry," Captain America said weakly. "Wasn't really thinking I'd be sparring today."

"Two hours, Captain," Natasha barked at him, letting him up. "Tomorrow, you and me, 11am. Be here."

"Yes ma'am," Steve said, hastily shuffling back to his chair next to Clint. Clint held up a hand for him to slap, grinning at him like an idiot. Nat wasn't even sweating.

"Agent Barton!" Aaaand there it was.

"Yes, Agent Romanoff?" Clint answered her, not moving from his chair as the Captain said back down, a little heavily. Poor guy was embarrassed. He grinned at Nat from his spot.

"Would you be so kind as to show these imbeciles what _real_ hand to hand combat will look like?" Natasha asked, with a sweet smile on her face. Ohh, she was going to kick his ass. He should have known the chips were a bad idea.

Clint heaved a sigh. "Oh, fine," he said, just as if he wasn't expecting the summons the whole time. She did it every class. He got up and shucked his outer layers, stripping down to his undershirt and cargo pants. Nat was watching him, hands on her hips, a gleam in her eyes that he couldn't quite place as he stepped on the mats. "For your information," Clint started, speaking to the trainees.

Bam! Nat wasn't waiting or holding back. He blocked her punch with a forearm, twisted out of the way of her kick. He struck back with two lower blows that she caught on her thigh before sending him stumbling back and rolling to his feet with a boot to the stomach. "The Black Widow is the best close combat fighter you'll ever meet," Clint went on. He went high this time, a series of blows and strikes that she blocked and turned and twisted as they moved backward across the mats.

"She kicks everyone's ass," he said, wheezing a little as she caught him in the chest again, then swept his legs out from under him. He rolled out of the way of her feet and moved back up, coming up behind her. Damn woman flipped backward and over his head and sent him stumbling forward again. Crap. "Including mine," he said, going for a fast series of blows again. Then it was fast and furious and they were rolling and flipping and falling and jumping and kicking and bam! He was down. Natasha was on top of him, thighs pinning his arms and arm wrapped around his neck, not tight enough to do any damage.

"Dammit," he grumbled, and tapped the mat twice. He could feel her body breathing against his, her breasts pressing against his upper back. He wouldn't mind staying just like this for a while, he thought.

Natasha got up, and turned back to the trainees. "And THAT is how to you spar," she told them crisply. At least she was sweating, he thought ruefully, getting to his feet. "What advantage does Agent Barton possess?"

There was silence as the trainees stared dumbly at the two of them. Clint gave them a glare of his own. Really? Nobody? Maybe they were still overwhelmed by a real bout.

"Arm strength," he heard from the side of the room.

"Thank you, Captain Rogers," Natasha said coolly. She narrowed her eyes on the trainees. "Learn to recognize your opponents advantages! Why arm strength?" Clint crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. Wow. Maybe these weren't the sharpest crayons in the box after all.

"He's an archer. That takes a lot of arm strength, more than other fighters," Steve was the one answering again. "Strong arms to pull the bow, strong hands. He should be able to use that."

"Apparently you are too stupid to answer on your own, and need Captain America to do your thinking for you!" Nat was really enjoying this, wasn't she? "An extra hour! Conditioning, tonight! Agent Barton! If you would please demonstrate…" Nat turned sideways and gestured to him.

Obediently, Cint stepped up behind his partner. "Agent Barton possesses superior arm strength, due to his weapon of choice," Nat started lecturing. "When he is able to get an arm lock around an opponent," she paused, waiting. Clint wrapped his arms around her torso, pinning hers down and pulling her in tight against him. He ignored the way her bottom nestled right against his groin and how her breasts were trapped by his forearm. He certainly didn't pay any attention to the way the heat of her body was causing the clean scent of her sweat to rise up and fill his nostrils. Damn, she smelled good. Nope, not noticing that at all.

"In this position, I would have to cause serious injury, possibly with a weapon in order to break his hold," Natasha was going on. She proceeded to demonstrate, heaving her body left and right, kicking and trying to throw him off balance. Clint hung on, moving with her, keeping her pinned against him.

"You must learn to predict strengths and know in an instant how to neutralize them in an opponent," she barked, stilling finally. She didn't move away, however, so Clint left his arms where they were. Not that he was noticing anything about her. Nope. He certainly wasn't fighting an erection from her grinding and rubbing against him, even in combat. Hah. Never. Nothing sexy about the best ass in SHIELD pressing against his groin.

"Pair up! Begin!" The trainees started to move around, spreading out over the mat and starting to spar.

Clint didn't move. After all, Tasha hadn't tapped him to be let loose. And dammit all if he wasn't going to take advantage of that. No one was looking at them now; all the trainees were hard at work, terrified that the Black Widow would come and make them fight her.

"Good class," Clint said, bending his head just a little to speak softly in her ear. "Loved the take down of Smith."

"Thought you might," Natasha murmured back. His arms loosened just a tad, sliding against the smooth, soft skin of her belly that was bared by the sports bra. He loved the feel of his arm hair dragging slowly and roughly against the satin of her skin.

"It's always a pleasure to watch you work," he said, turning his head just enough so that his lips were nearly against her ear. And lo and behold, he felt the ripple of sensation run through her. Her response sent all the blood rushing to his dick, and Clint was suddenly as hard as a rock. "Natasha," he breathed.

"Clint," she said, very softly, turning her head to look up at him over her shoulder. Eyes deep and green and pupils dilated. God, he was turned on. And so was she, if he wasn't totally crazy. He felt her breath against him. "Not now," she whispered.

"Later?" he asked, feeling like his heart was going to beat out of his chest. He felt her shift and press back against him, and fought to keep his face neutral. They were surrounded by people, for heaven's sake. It was going to be hard enough to hide the raging hard-on that he was currently sporting, thanks to her.

"Later," she agreed quietly, then he felt her breathe in deeply. His fingers stroked her bare sides slowly, and then she was tapping his arms and he let her go.

Clint took a few moments alone as Natasha moved off to berate and correct one of the sparring pairs. He just breathed and tried to get his body back under control.

"So," Steve's voice said, sounding amused over his shoulder. "Good match."

Clint slid a look at his teammate as the Captain stood, arms folded and a highly amused look on his face. "Yeah," he said, unable to keep from smiling a little. "Great match."

Last Chapter: Second Drawer – Blue Cotton T-Shirt


	7. Chapter 7 Blue Cotton TShirt

Chapter 7

Second Drawer – Blue Cotton T-Shirt

_Later…_

It was far later than Natasha had planned by the time she turned the now wilting group of trainees over for conditioning. Agent Ramon Sanchez was waiting, a smirk on his broad face as he stood and watched the bedraggled and clearly exhausted men and women come into the weight room.

"Looks like a bunch of drooping flowers," he rumbled loudly to her as Natasha strolled up to him. "Any of this bunch going to make it through field training?"

Natasha shrugged, hands on her hips. "We'll see," she said deliberately. "They could end up dead first."

Agent Sanchez laughed, his huge barrel of a chest shaking under those tree-trunks of arms. Every time she saw him, Natasha had a sense that he was bigger than the last time. She wondered if he'd been spending time with Banner.

"Well, the delicate blossoms are mine for the next hour," he said.

"Two," Natasha said sweetly. "They were rather slow on the uptake with me today."

"Two," Agent Sanchez agreed. "Right then, blossoms, on the ground, give me fifty push-ups. Count em' off!"

"One…. Two… three…" Natasha left the room with a smile on her face. Nothing like making someone else sweat in pain to bring a happy feeling to a girl.

She pulled her black t-shirt over her sports bra as she walked, heading down the corridor. As she passed the cafeteria, she heard her name being called. "Agent Romanoff! Agent Romanoff!"

Natasha turned and saw a junior agent, Agent Vollen, she though it was, coming towards her, an earnest look on his far-too-young face. "Yes, Agent?" she answered crisply. Please, for the love of whatever god, do not go groupie on me, she thought. That'd been happening WAY too often since the Battle of New York. Clint always sniggered just a little too loudly when it did.

"Ma'am," the young man stammered. "Agent Barton told me to find you after your class ended, and let you know that he was called away with Captain Rogers. They'll be back late, ma'am."

She gave the agent a short nod. "Thank you," she said, and spun on her heel, heading on to her room. She was aware of a sinking feeling in her stomach, a feeling that she could recognize as disappointment. After their… match… during her class, Natasha had been anticipating seeing Clint again. Maybe seeing was the wrong word. But it was apparently a moot point, she though, mood darkening just a bit, since the man wasn't even on the hellicarrier.

She shoved the churning thoughts aside as she approached the senior living quarters. Thank goodness she and Barton qualified for officer level rooms, she thought, not for the first time. She did NOT make a good roommate. Instead, they each had their own room, with a bigger bed than those puny military-sized cots and a private bath.

Natasha approached her door and had her hand on the doorknob before she hesitated. Her stomach was churning again, and it was unpleasant, to say the least. Without thinking too deeply about what she was about to do, she instead walked one more door down to Clint's room, and stepped inside.

She shut the door behind her and leaned back against it with a sigh. It wasn't like she hadn't been in his room before. Many, many times they'd woken each other from vicious nightmares, or tended each other's battle wounds in an effort to avoid the medical bay. But this time… it was different.

She looked around in the gathering gloom of the room. It was Spartan, bare, much like her own. A dresser, a bed, a desk and chair. His desk was covered with arrows, complete and in pieces. His bow lay folded on top of the dresser. His bed was made neatly, and she could see through the open doorway to the bath that his towels were all hung on the rod. There was a small stack of books on the floor near the head of the bed, and his nightstand had a clock, his ipod and a ballpoint pen. If she slid her hand under his pillow, she knew she'd find at least one weapon, probably two.

Standing away from the door at her back, Natasha walked slowly toward the dresser. She pulled out the second drawer, and poked at the shirts piled neatly inside. Her fingers seized on the one she wanted, a soft, faded blue cotton t-shirt. She pulled it out, and taking it with her, headed for his bathroom.

Stripping out of her own sweaty clothes, Natasha dropped them in a dark little heap in the corner of the bath before stepping into the shower. She let the hot water slide down her bare skin, reveling in the feeling. She sighed.

Natasha picked up a bottle of shampoo and poured a healthy amount into her hand before starting to massage it into her scalp. As she did, the subtle spice of the shampoo began to fill the air, floating in the steam of the shower. It smelled like Clint. Her muscles, loose and warm from all the exercise, then the hot water; they loosened even more. She languidly scrubbed her hair, eyes closed and hot water running down her front.

Where was he? She wondered. If it had been a mission, he'd have come and told her. They always checked in before solo missions. Instead, he was off with Captain America doing who-knows-what while she was left waiting for him to get back. And not only that, she was left to wait with this tense, tight ball of something in her stomach after their little… whatever.

He'd always been able to do that to her, she thought, turning and rinsing the shampoo clear. Wind her up and let her spin. It was infuriating, not that she ever let him see it. Of course, she made a point of trying to repay it in turn. Clint had never been blind to her, she knew. He'd tried really hard at the beginning, before they'd really trusted each other. And she'd eventually appreciated his ability to set the heat between them aside and had repaid the favor by meeting his efforts halfway. Eventually. After all, a woman had to be sure that her new partner was for real, right?

But they'd made their partnership firm and solid and tight and so _real_. It was the most real thing that her life of subtleties and half-lies and disguises and deep covers had ever had. And now… She reached for the soap. Now they were seemingly ready for more.

Natasha lathered up slowly, slicking suds over her torso, legs. Arms and face. Clint had finally worked his way through the shit that Loki had left in his brain. She'd beaten out the rage that had stemmed from her failure to protect her partner, no matter the fact that there had been nothing she could have done. They were… touchy with each other. Nudging during meetings, bodies brushing as they passed in the hall, pressing a little harder against each other during training. And today… she shivered, despite the hot water. Today had been so HOT. She'd practically melted into an embarrassing goo pile when he'd stood there with his arms wrapped around her.

Natasha rinsed and reached to shut the water off. Not that it mattered at the moment, since the man wasn't here. She choose the towel on the right, and briskly dried her skin, then wrapped it around her head, trapping the wet red hair under the white towel. Naked, she reached for the blue t-shirt and tugged it over her head. The soft, well-worn cotton fell to her upper thighs. Clint wasn't that much taller than she was, but he was broader. His shirt wasn't quite a nightgown, but it was a really comfortable sleep shirt.

She pulled off the towel and squeezed her hair dry, then pulled open the top drawer of his sink to find a comb. She ran it through her hair, letting the damp strands fall and air dry. Natasha hung up the towel, put the comb away, and padded barefoot back into the bedroom. She thought about picking up the sweaty clothes in a heap in the corner, but then just left them. She'd have to go next door with them, anyway.

Instead, she pushed the covers of the neatly made bed back and out of the way and slid in between the sheets. The cool smooth cotton of the sheets was silky against her bare legs, and the soft clean scent of the shirt was there when she breathed in. Natasha breathed deeply, smelling a little hint of leather and soap and that something that was just Clint. She yawned. And then she fell asleep.

* * *

Natasha woke slowly. Gently. She woke to lips soft on her cheek and fingertips trailing lightly down her neck. She sighed, not opening her eyes. Clint.

Later, she'd consider the fact that he was able to not only get in the room without waking her, but get so close without her snapping awake and having a weapon to his throat. Right now, all she was able to think about was the soft, soft feel of his mouth against the shell of her ear.

"Natasha," he whispered. A shudder slid over her skin as his voice rumbled in her ear. She breathed deeply, taking in the feel and smell of him, then rolled over onto her back.

She opened her eyes slowly. Clint was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands planted on either side of her shoulders, leaning over her. His eyes were darkened and gleaming in the dim room, and shadows fell over his face. "You're late," she said.

"Didn't mean to," he said, voice low. One hand lifted and brushed back a lock of her hair. A sigh slipped out of her at the feel of his fingers. She felt his fingers tighten on her hair at the sound, then relax. "Fury sent Rogers and I to pick up some diplomat from the UN. We got held up by Rogers getting recognized."

She smiled, just a little. "I was waiting for you," she finally said.

"I see that," he answered quietly. His fingers moved down to trace her cheek and the curve of her chin. "You're in my bed."

"Very observant," she said.

His fingers drifted down her throat and curled lightly into the collar of the t-shirt. "You're wearing my shirt," he told her.

"It's amazing, the skills you posses," she snarked gently. His fingers tightened in the shirt collar.

"I don't remember lending this shirt to you," Clint said. He leaned a little closer. "I think I want it back."

"Do you really," Natasha purred. She stretched just a little, breasts pushing upward against the t-shirt. His eyes were drawn exactly where she wanted them.

"Oh, I really do," he answered huskily. "I really, really do." Natasha opened her mouth to give some sort of a smart answer, but before she could, his mouth was crashing down on hers. And dear god, it was finally happening.

For a first kiss, it was pretty much everything she'd wanted. It was hot, intense, and passionate. It was ripped clothes, up-against-the-door, can't-wait-any-longer-to-get-inside-you lust. It was also soft, tender, cherishing. It was bandage-your-wounds, stroke-your-hair and I-just-want-to-hold-your-hand warmth. His mouth was warm and firm against hers, his tongue tasting and stroking and meeting hers halfway. Without thinking, her arms lifted to wrap around his neck, pulling him closer. She wanted the feel of his body pressing against her, his skin against her own.

His arms stayed straight, however, as he kept his upper body off of hers even as his head bent down to her own. Clint broke the kiss and gave her a dark smile. "I want my shirt back," he said, and pulled at the collar.

Natasha smiled herself, a bone-deep sensual smile, and reaching down she grasped the hem of the shirt even as she toed off the sheets. She drew the shirt up, up over her belly and breasts and then over her head. She laid there, gloriously naked and let the shirt dangle in the air from one finger.

"Still want it?" she asked sweetly.

"God yes," he answered, voice a little hoarse and sending heat through her body. And then he kissed her again.

This time their bodies came together, her naked one, his still-clothed one as the t-shirt dropped unheeded to the floor. They rolled together, her body sprawling over his, then his over hers, one leg slipping between her bare thighs. Natasha gasped into his mouth and pressed her hips upward, grinding against his pant leg. Clint groaned and sent his mouth chasing down her throat to close over one bare breast.

Sensation shot through her as his lips closed and tugged on the hard nipple. His mouth was hot and wet and hungry and it was all she could do to make her hands keep moving, tugging at his shirt, baring his shoulders, chest, back to her own greedy grasp.

He pulled back just enough to let her get the shirt over his head, and then dove right back in, mouth torturing her other breast now even as his hand closed over the now free one.

"Natasha," he groaned against her skin as her nails raked down his back, closing on his buttocks and squeezing. The man had a fine, fine ass. She'd been staring at it for too many years. He pressed his mouth to her belly even as her nimble fingers slipped under the waist of his pants and skimmed skin.

They didn't need words, they didn't need declarations, although that would definitely come later in some form or another. They just needed each other. His pants were soon gone, and they were tangled together, bare skin to bare skin, mouths and legs and fingers tight against the other's.

And then when his body finally slipped inside hers, it was a revelation. Natasha choked on a gasp as she felt the world spin down and stop for a heartbeat. She'd known sexual pleasure before, she'd had men in her line of work who had been genuinely good lovers. But nothing, _nothing_ was like the sensation of Clint's body buried within her own. It wasn't just pleasure, it was… right.

He lifted his head, those eyes of his gleaming in the dark and staring straight into her soul. "Tasha," he whispered, letting his lips brush hers so delicately.

Natasha sighed against his lips, and pressed a kiss to his mouth. "Clint," she murmured back.

He flexed his hips slowly, back and forth, so slowly. "Always, Tasha," he whispered. "Always."

Her leg came up to wrap around his hip, her arms were about his neck and torso, her fingers in his hair. She pressed her lips to his again. "Always," she promised. And then she let him take her away.

* * *

Afterward, they lay curled into each other, bodies warm and damp and loose-limbed. His cheek was pressed into the crown of her head, and her fingers lay on his chest over his heart. He was lazily tracing a path from the nape of her neck to the base of her spine and back up again.

Much to her internal surprise, Natasha was the one who broke the silence. "Clint," she said softly.

"Hmm?" he answered, pulling her just a little closer. The woman, long held back inside her, gloried in the feeling even as the trained assassin winced.

"How do we do this?" she asked, pressing her forehead to his neck.

His fingers stilled for a second before resuming their path. "We just stay us, Tasha," he told her. "Just us, same as always. Only difference, now we have each other. Partners."

She nodded slowly. "Partners." She could understand that. Accept that. Enjoy that. Maybe even love that.

"Always," he added, pressing his lips to her hair. Something about that word made her melt again.

She sighed. "Always," she finally agreed softly. He kissed her head again, and she settled closer, closing her eyes. Morning would be coming soon enough, and they'd have plenty to do. They'd handle it. Partners always did.

* * *

AN – Thanks to all for reading! Your reviews are greatly appreciated. I apologize for any mistakes, either grammatical or as one guest review pointed out, due to ignorance about archery. For my purposes, we'll just keep those sexy arms of Clint's as his strong point. One of them, anyway.

I'm considering one-shots based on items of clothing, along these lines. If you have a suggestion for one, leave it in a review and we'll see what happens!


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